


The Lost Time

by surlybobbies



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, This is fluff, oh god I'm SO SORRY, the emotional kind of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 13:24:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4748024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surlybobbies/pseuds/surlybobbies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas stares numbly at his sent messages, his head pounding.  He almost can’t believe it.  He squeezes his eyes shut, pinches himself, slaps himself, but no matter what he does, the messages are still there, addressed to Dean, written and sent last night by a very drunk Castiel:</p>
<p>
  <i>i want to kiss you</i>
</p>
<p>And then another: </p>
<p>
  <i>i’ve wanted to kiss you since we met two years ago</i>
</p>
<p>It’s remarkably coherent, and Cas would be congratulating himself on his drunk-texting skills had he not just last night drunkenly admitted his feelings to Dean Winchester.  Through text.  His drunk self didn’t even have the guts to dial Dean’s number.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lost Time

Cas stares numbly at his sent messages, his head pounding. He almost can’t believe it. He squeezes his eyes shut, pinches himself, slaps himself, but no matter what he does, the messages are still there, addressed to Dean, written and sent last night by a very drunk Castiel:

_i want to kiss you_

And then another: 

_i’ve wanted to kiss you since we met two years ago_

It’s remarkably coherent, and Cas would be congratulating himself on his drunk-texting skills had he not just last night drunkenly admitted his feelings to Dean Winchester. Through text. His drunk self didn’t even have the guts to dial Dean’s number.

“This can’t be happening,” he says, his voice catching roughly. He drops his phone onto the mattress and runs a hand over his eyes. “I’m an idiot,” he says to himself. His stomach gives an uncomfortable lurch. Wincing, he makes his way to the bathroom where he promptly heaves a bottle’s worth of liquor and falls asleep on his rug.

 

He’s woken by the sound of his door opening. His first thought is an intruder; he lifts his head weakly, but his head is still sore, and the memory of what he sent to Dean last night comes rushing back. He gives up on getting up. If it’s a robber, he hopes the guy will have the decency to knock him out.

But it’s not a robber; a robber would be preferable. 

“Cas?” Dean’s voice is usually a balm to Cas’s pains, but this time, it sends a bolt of cold fear into his stomach. He curls up as tight as he can on the bathroom rug and hopes that Dean, upon finding an empty bedroom, will assume Cas is out. He hears Dean throw his keys on the coffee table, then his heavy work boots stomping through the bedroom. “Cas?” The voice is closer now, right outside the bathroom door.

Cas feels like he might throw up again.

When the bathroom door swings open and Cas sees Dean’s boots, he emits a groan of despair. “I’m not here,” he says to the boots, his face aflame. He can’t bear to look Dean in the eye.

“Holy shit, Cas,” Dean says. He kneels, and Cas cringes. The man pushes a hand through Cas’s sweaty hair, and Cas suddenly, irrationally feels like crying. This is too much. Dean is too much, too kind, too wonderful. 

“Why are you here?” Cas’s voice is foreign to his own ears. 

It must sound strange to Dean, too, because he pulls his hand back. “Heard from Gabe you got trashed last night; I’m here to nurse you back to health.” He holds out a hand. “That’s what best friends do, right?”

Cas squeezes his eyes tight, feeling a tear trail down his face. If Dean notices, he doesn’t say anything, just takes Cas’s hand where it’s curled up near his chest and tugs. Cas goes slowly. He tries to ignore the warmth of the hand that Dean places on his back as he’s guided to his bed. He also ignores the soft sigh that he hears from Dean once Cas is settled under the covers. 

Cas buries himself under his blanket. He hears Dean tinkering outside in the kitchen, then the sound of his boots returning. He hears the dull clink of a plate near his right ear, where Dean sets down a plate.

“Bud,” Dean says, “Eat something. I brought you soup. Or crackers. Your choice. Also - “ Cas hears pills rattling in a bottle - “Drugs.”

Cas doesn’t respond. He knows he’s being immature, knows he should own up to what his drunken self did and said and admitted and confessed - but he can’t say anything, can’t admit that he’s fucked up their friendship forever because he couldn’t hold his alcohol. And Dean - such a wonderful person. Dean, ignoring the messages to take care of Cas. He was always a mother hen. He’ll bring up the messages later, when Cas isn’t so sick, let Cas down easy - and Cas will take it stoically in front of Dean, but shut himself up in his apartment afterward and drink and repeat the process all over again.

He can see it in great detail. He groans pitifully.

There’s silence from Dean, then, after a pause, the sound of his boots retreating. Cas hears his voice speaking from the other room, presumably into his phone.

“Heya, Bobby, uh - listen, I can’t come in today.”

Bobby’s voice is rough with static; Cas can’t make out what he’s saying.

“No, I’m not sick - it’s a family emergency - no, not Sam.”

More grumpy rumbling.

Silence. Then, muffled, as if Dean had turned away from the door, “Cas needs me, Bobby.”  
The voice on the other end is quieter when it replies.

Dean sighs, and thanks his boss. The call ends. 

When Dean walks back into the bedroom, Cas pretends to be asleep. He doesn’t move under the covers, nor does he respond to Dean’s quiet voice saying his name. Dean moves to the other side of the bed; Cas’s only warning that his best friend is about to join him in the bed is the sound of his boots hitting the floor. He holds his breath, but Dean merely stretches out on the covers and stays silent. Soon he’s snoring lightly.

Cas relaxes. He pulls away the blanket covering his head and angles his head so that he can look at his friend’s face for the first time since he arrived. Dean’s eyelids are fluttering, his mouth slightly open. There are bags under his eyes; he’s been working late, then, Cas infers. 

_Or,_ his traitor mind supplies, _your texts kept him up late last night because he was thinking of ways to let you down without hurting you._

Swallowing painfully, Cas’s eyes flick down to Dean’s lips - full and pink. Despite the pain the two messages had caused him, he can’t deny their truth. He wants to kiss Dean, has wanted to kiss Dean since they met through Sam years ago. He suspects he’d still want to kiss Dean even after Dean inevitably rejects him. 

Their friendship will end because Cas can’t rid himself of his feelings for his best friend.

He closes his eyes again in misery and mortification. Eventually he lapses into an uncomfortable sleep.

 

When he wakes up, it’s midday and his stomach is rumbling with hunger. Dean is in the living room, judging by the cartoon noises coming from that general direction. Cas sits up gingerly. The room is no longer spinning. Besides the lingering heartburn and stale mouth, he’s almost back to normal.

He’s also as close as ever to losing Dean’s friendship.

He puts it off; he shoves some crackers into his mouth, and, as quietly as he can, shakes out two painkillers into his palm. He swallows them down with a glass of water. Then he sits in stillness, waiting for the courage to get up.

It comes eventually, when his throat dries up and he drains his glass. He shuffles into the living room, his eyes on the floor.

Dean’s immediately on his feet. “Whoa, there, buddy, slow down.” He turns off the TV, then rounds the couch and walks near Cas, his hands hovering as though he doesn’t know what to do with them. “You’re feeling better?”

Cas nods, but he doesn’t trust himself to speak. He seats himself at his dining table and rests his head in one hand. Dean takes the glass from him and refills it. Then he sits down, his body angled toward Cas.

Cas drains the glass again; it helps to get rid of the sour taste in his mouth. 

It’s obvious that Dean is waiting for Cas to say something, but when he doesn’t, Dean sighs. “Why won’t you look at me?” he asks helplessly.

_Because it’s too much to look at you. I don’t want to remember what I’m about to lose._ “My head just hurts, Dean,” is what he says instead.

“You’re worrying me,” is Dean’s immediate answer. “Last time you had a hangover you wouldn’t stop swearing at me. Now you won’t even talk to me.”

Cas digs his palms into his eyes. He doesn’t remove them when he decides to bring it up. Like a band-aid, Cas. “Did you get the messages I sent you last night?”

There’s a long, long silence. “I got ‘em.”

“And?”

“Did you mean it?”

Cas understands it for what it is: Dean’s giving him an out, an easy way of fixing the problem. He could lie. He could lie and say no, it was just a drunken lie, a prank that Gabe convinced him to play. It would be so easy to do that.

But here on the verge, Cas knows what he needs to do. Two long years of pining, of watching Dean fall in love with other people, of falling in love with Dean. It’s do or die. Cas knows he’d eventually die of heartbreak if he lied to Dean here. 

All that’s left is to do. 

He removes his palms from his eyes and blinks away the stars. He stares at the wood of his dining table and, slowly, he nods. “I did mean it.”

Dean doesn’t move. Cas lifts his eyes to his best friend’s, heart in his throat. Dean’s mouth is open, his eyes wide. “Cas,” he whispers finally. He sounds almost awed. “I thought Gabe was playing a trick on me.” He lifts his hand.

Cas feels Dean’s fingers on his bottom lip, tracing it slowly. He’s amazed he’s still breathing. “What are you saying?” he asks roughly. 

Dean’s hands move to cup Cas’s jaw. They’re shaking. “Cas, I’m saying, _me too._ ” And he’s leaning forward, catching Cas’s gasp in his mouth. His lips, when they move, are hesitant against Cas’s.

Cas reacts in kind, moving gently, scared of breaking whatever spell he’s cast on himself to believe that Dean is actually kissing him. Dean, kissing him. 

When he pulls away, Dean is smiling, his eyes wet. “I’ve waited a long time to do that,” he admits.

Cas pulls him forward again for another kiss. He kisses harder this time, testing reality. It doesn’t break. He doesn’t break. He pulls at Dean’s hair, gratified when Dean grunts. He feels his hands shaking when he pulls back. “This is real,” he says against Dean’s lips.

“Very real,” Dean breathes, his hands at the hem of Cas’s shirt. He kisses Cas’s neck. “I’d like to point out at this point that we wasted two years of our lives not making out.”

The loss is real, but the way Dean grips his bare waist makes it worth it. Cas sighs against Dean’s ear and feels his best friend shiver.

They make up for lost time.

**Author's Note:**

> This took me by surprise. I'm so sorry.


End file.
